


One More Chance XII

by DancingHare



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 17:59:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13440186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DancingHare/pseuds/DancingHare
Summary: Vajarra meets an unexpected friend.





	One More Chance XII

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published July 18, 2008

Istahn was certain that he was being watched. The bustling, anonymous crowd that was first a welcome respite now seemed a liability. He had no way of knowing who might be hiding among them, waiting to strike.

And he was rather startled to realize that he missed the sterile, glimmering spires of Silvermoon. The neatly trimmed Scryer’s Tier made a noble effort, but even there he felt as if they were an anomaly, sectioned off out of the way where they might not bother the rest of the city. It was probably more of habit than anything else, he was observant enough to see the undercurrent of corruption that ran just under Silvermoon’s surface. But like most blood elves, he was adept at looking the other way.

How could he return, though? He wasn’t particularly well-known there, but well enough. They’d notice his scuffed armor and secondhand blades, and — he feared — the air of desperation. Beside that, there were a fair number in Silvermoon who were less than eager to accept Kael’s former followers back into the fold. No matter though, Istahn could bow and scrape convincingly enough when necessary. He’d thought he might go back and help fight back the Scourge for a while, it would give him opportunity to practice his new techniques. It was humbling and awkward to adapt to an entirely new way of fighting, he still made plenty of foolish mistakes. The two short blades felt too light in his hands, too weak to withstand an enemy’s onslaught.

Precision, that’s what he was learning now. Hold your strikes until the best moment, and then move in quickly, like a viper. Istahn was certain that once he grew more accustomed to the style, he would excel at it, even moreso than he had with his greatsword. His thin ears flicked warily as he glanced around the Tier. There was no one here, at least that he could see. He threw his meager belongings into his satchel, striding out toward the great stone lift.

The center of the city was the busiest, aside from the Lower City market. Where the market was full of beggars and merchants, here were the heroes and big-shots, come to gather and stand about looking impressive. Istahn sneered faintly, winding his way through a crowd of people, just ducking the tail of one of those ridiculous nether-dragons. The damned things were enormous and he was surprised that more people weren’t trampled or eaten by them daily. He spared a glance toward the center of the chamber, where the generals gathered around the miniature replica of Quel’danas, illuminated by the naaru above.

One day he might join them there. Istahn thought it would be appropriately ironic to battle his former comrades, but for now his sights were on the Scourge. He strode toward the shimmering portal, making three strides before he stopped dead.

His little demon from Bloodmyst was standing there, conferring with the Grand Anchorite. Wait, he squinted, not her — but the resemblance was uncanny and couldn’t possibly be a coincidence. A wry grin curled his lips. A twin? She’d certainly never mentioned that little detail.

Drawing closer, he could see subtle differences between them. This draenei’s skin was unscarred, and of course both of her horns were intact. She had a softer edge about her, and from her dress and manner she appeared to be a priestess. How fortuitous, Istahn mused, stroking his beard. She didn’t give him so much as a glance, finishing her conversation with the Grand Anchorite and dipping in a neat bow, before she turned to walk back out in the direction of Aldor rise.

“A thousand pardons, my lady,” Istahn said, sliding easily up to her side. She gave a little squeak of surprise, halting mid-step to stare at him. “Please,” he said, spreading his palms, “I don’t mean you any harm. I only wondered if I might speak to you.”

The priestess stared at him for several moments, her brow furrowed above her glowing eyes. She glanced around them, probably searching for a guard. “All right,” she said, smoothing her gown with her hands, which were trembling almost imperceptibly. “What is it?”

Istahn nodded upward, toward Aldor rise. “You are a priestess, is that right?”

Still frowning faintly, she followed his gaze and then nodded warily. “An anchorite, yes. Do you need help?”

That was what he had been waiting for. Istahn gave a trembling sigh, wringing his hands theatrically. “My people have turned from the Light, priestess, and I am filled with remorse.” He lifted his eyes to hers, with a pleading look. “Please, can you help me? Can you teach me the ways of the Light?”

The draenei watched him closely, weighing him, he knew. At last, the hint of a smile broke. “Of course I will help you,” she answered, gesturing for him to follow.

Istahn was reminded of the words of Sironas, the eredar who’d joined them on Bloodmyst isle:  _The draenei’s fatal flaw is their trusting nature._


End file.
